


balanced minds

by kingtear



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Human Jonathan Reid, M/M, Pre-Canon, Smut, for now, gratuitous use of literary quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26001943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtear/pseuds/kingtear
Summary: London, 1909. Jonathan finds a young Geoffrey McCullum bleeding in the park.
Relationships: Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid
Comments: 47
Kudos: 185





	1. PART 1

**Author's Note:**

> i know this fandom is probably dead? but i recently played vampyr and i fell in LOVE with the gothic drama of it. also i was pretty vexed that the game forced you to romance lady ashbury so i started shipping jonathan and geoffrey partly out of spite.
> 
> i wanted to write some cute relationship stuff but felt that it was too OOC in the context of the dark af game, so i time traveled. this way they can have a nice fluffy romance AND angsty gritty hate-sex later. 
> 
> the six-year age difference makes Jonathan 35 during the game (as is canon) and Geoffrey 29. i personally think geoffrey looks pretty young, but feel free to change his age in your head if that doesn't work for you
> 
> hope you enjoy!

All human wisdom is contained in these words: Wait and hope!

Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

* * *

_London, 1909_

.

.

.

Dusk shrouds the streets in a purple veil, chasing off the daytime hues and bringing in a brisk cold. Jonathan tightens his scarf and hurries down the steps of Temple Hospital; he has a brief respite for dinner before he must return to his shift. His post at the hospital is new. As a recent graduate of an accelerated program in France, his credentials are official but his skill as a surgeon is still unproven to his colleagues. Thus, he has found himself run ragged balancing his work at the hospital and his research, conducted only with the aid of a liberal grant by the Dawson & Dawson Foundation. The fifteen minutes a day he permits himself for a quick meal are a treasured reprieve.

Avery prepares dinner for Jonathan to bring to work daily (wordlessly disapproving at how Jonathan is never home for meals), a simple affair of sandwiches with mixed greens on the side. Jonathan sits at his usual spot in the park, a quiet bench by the fountain, and unwraps his meal. Allows the buzz of tasks and theories in his head to calm as he drinks in the sight of gentle water over stone and wisps of clouds wafting over a crescent moon, pale against a darkening sky. 

It is later than he usually eats, and there are few visitors in the park: a couple strolling by the fountain, a family of three packing up their evening picnic, and a young man in the pavilion. Curious by nature (or, as Mary would say, nosy like their mother), Jonathan observes his fellow parkgoers. His gaze lingers on the figure of the young man, hunched over and clutching his arm, and … is that blood Jonathan spots, dripping between the man’s fingers?

Without a second thought, Jonathan abandons his sandwich and strides over to the shadowed pavilion. As he approaches, his initial assessment is confirmed. Blood spills from a large tear in the young man’s coat, under which Jonathan assumes there is a fresh wound. The man looks up as Jonathan’s wingtips click against the stone floor. His eyes are remarkably blue, and for a moment Jonathan feels his breath hitch at not only the color, but the raw and piercing distrust in them.

“Who’re you?” he spits, distinctly and viciously Irish, body tensing with the signs of imminent flight.

“I’m Dr. Jonathan Reid of the Temple Church Hospital,” says Jonathan, soothingly. He has been told by many patients and fellow colleagues that his voice is like a balm to their nerves, and he can only hope it is effective against this stranger as well. “I was taking dinner and noticed you’re wounded. Would you permit me to bring you to the hospital?”

“Sod off,” comes the answer, which Jonathan perhaps should have expected. There’s a reason the man is bleeding out in a park less than a hundred feet from the hospital entrance and not in the hospital itself.

“Alright. Could I provide medical assistance to you here, then?”

The man snorts. “What are you gonna do that I can’t do myself? Unless you’re carryin’ a damn pharmacy under that fancy white coat of yours...”

From his satchel, Jonathan pulls out a first aid kit that he carries with him at all times. It contains antiseptic, gauze, equipment for stitches, light dosage painkillers, and even a miniature bottle of whiskey, for when those light dosage painkillers weren’t light enough, opium being what it is. Clarence has often teased him for this neurotic habit, but Jonathan knew a situation like this would arise at some point. 

The man’s initial surprise has worn off and transformed once more into ire. “Look, I know you types. Stitch me up and then charge me an arm and a leg for it. I’d be better off just losing my arm entirely, so, like I said: _sod off,_ will you?”

“I didn’t and don’t intend to charge you, sir,” says Jonathan. “Please, allow me to help. No strings attached.”

The man narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What, then? You’re helping me out of the kindness of your heart?”

“And out of an ethical and professional obligation. As a doctor, I cannot allow an injured civilian to stand untreated in front of me.”

“Civilian,” the man mutters derisively, then unsticks his hand from his shoulder, “alright, then. Get on with it, doc.”

It is a long gash that has torn the muscle and skin in jagged edges, likely made by a dull knife. Jonathan sets to disinfecting it first, then gently wipes away the blood so that he has better visibility for his stitches. Suturing comes naturally to him and is honestly therapeutic, and so as he grasps the needle between steady fingers he allows himself to ponder this mysterious young man. From the cut of his clothes, he must be from a less fortunate district. Probably a gang member, though why he would be bleeding all over West End is beyond Jonathan.

“So, what brings you to this part of London, mister…?”

“McCullum,” says the man. “And what’s it to you? A bloke can’t walk freely about the city anymore? Afraid that I’ll muck up you lot’s fancy garden over here?”

“Not at all. I was simply making conversation. I find that patients endure the suturing process more easily when they are distracted,” Jonathan says pleasantly, puncturing his statement with his needle piercing Geoffrey’s flesh.

“I’m enduring it just fine.” 

“You certainly are,” Jonathan assures him, truthfully. “Thank you for your stillness and patience. It makes my job significantly easier.”

“Yeah, well, I’m used to it,” mumbles McCullum, averting his eyes at the praise.

“Nonetheless, you’re an excellent patient.”

McCullum’s mouth twists as the tips of his ears betray him, reddening and bashful. He’s likely only a few years younger than Jonathan, but he looks quite boyish now, almost _cute_. Reminiscent of Mary when she’s pouting.

McCullum has fallen into a sour silence, so Jonathan finishes up the stitches without speaking and cleans up the skin around them, then bandages the wound. 

“All done, Mr. McCullum. Just keep the wound clean and dry, and avoid strenuous activity for a while, and in particular keep movement of that arm to a minimum.” Jonathan packs his kit away with methodical ease as he speaks. “In a week, come visit me at the hospital and I can take a look to see if it’s healing properly.”

“Sure, doc,” McCullum says sarcastically. He tugs his coat back on, wincing. Although he’s built broadly, his shoulders wider than Jonathan’s by a distinct margin, the coat is big enough to swallow him. He hasn’t finished growing yet. Barely in his twenties, Jonathan assesses.

“You may also see me at my home, if you wish. I keep a personal stock of medical supplies and could treat you there.” Something about McCullum triggers Jonathan’s protective instincts. He’s a fool for strays and lost causes, like the time in secondary school when he brought a wounded pigeon home and painstakingly nursed it back to health over the course of several weeks.

McCullum stares at him, bewildered, as Jonathan scribbles out his address and tears the sheet out of his journal. “You’re giving me your home address? Are you an idiot or a saint, Dr. Reid?”

“Neither,” Jonathan says dryly, handing him the page. “I’m simply a doctor, and you are my patient. It is a mutual bond of trust.”

“We’ll see how you feel about that bond once you get robbed blind.”

“If I’m blind, how will I remove your stitches?”

“It’s an expression, you,” McCullum scowls, realizing that he’s being teased. “Damn Wisenheimer, are you? Bloody West End pricks.” He stands up and puffs out his chest. “I’m off. See you never, doc.”

Jonathan smiles. “Goodbye, Mr. McCullum. Take care.”

McCullum is already halfway down the steps of the pavilion, but he turns and says, still scowling, “Thanks, I s’pose.” 

Then, he’s striding away. Jonathan sits for a bit and watches the young man go. He isn’t sure if he’ll see McCullum again, but he sure hopes so. He isn’t unlike a wayward bird, pecking nervously at any hand, even a helpful one. One of Jonathan’s more interesting patients by far.

 _Lord, my patients,_ Jonathan thinks suddenly, flicking his open his stopwatch. He’s over twenty-five minutes late to his next shift. And he didn’t even eat dinner.

.

.

.

Unsurprisingly, McCullum doesn’t show up to get his stitches examined a week later. Jonathan is so absorbed in his research that he doesn’t think much of it, though perhaps he does find himself casting double-takes at young men in large coats with dark, scruffy hair, trying to catch a flash of those vivid eyes. But McCullum’s type doesn’t frequent the West End, and as October shifts into November, Jonathan loses the habit and forgets about the strange man bleeding in Temple Park almost entirely.

On a dreary Thursday, he visits east London to attend a seminar at Pembroke. The lecture itself finishes mid-evening, and Jonathan heads to the pub to have a quick meal before heading home. The meal, however, turns into a rather vigorous incursion into his journal as he’s abruptly struck with a new idea for the blood transfusion technique he’s developing, and before he knows it the barkeep is telling him apologetically that they’re closing, and Jonathan is standing in the streets of London at two o’clock in the morning. 

He sighs. This isn’t the first time he’s tunnel visioned on a project and gotten stuck in some random part of London at night, but usually he has the presence of mind to ask the owner of whatever pub or library or restaurant he’s haunting to call a cab. He begins the trek to Pembroke hospital, figuring that he can request one from the front desk.

He’s two blocks away when he hears a muffled groan from an alley to his right. No stranger to the dangers of the city, he prepares to speed up his pace.

“Fuck, fuckin’ shit,” curses a man in a familiar Irish accent.

Jonathan veers sharply right, down the alley, where he finds McCullum leaning against the wall, bleeding profusely from what appears to be a stab wound to his abdomen as he attempts to walk _by himself_. Jonathan immediately puts one arm around his waist to support him as the other tugs off his scarf and presses it to the wound.

It says a lot about McCullum’s state that he doesn’t even struggle against the contact, merely slurring, “Who the fuck,” before slumping his weight against Jonathan.

“McCullum, it’s Dr. Reid. Can you walk like this?” Jonathan says hurriedly. 

“Oh, it’s the good doctor,” says McCullum. “The fuck are you doing this time of night?”

“Saving your life, apparently.”

“I wouldn’t die from a little poke like this,” McCullum protests, and proceeds to swoon into Jonathan’s arms. 

Jonathan scoops him up as gently as possible. Thank God Clarence forced him into an exercise regimen all those months ago, or he would certainly not be capable of carrying McCullum so easily now. “Keep applying pressure to the wound. I’m taking you to get medical attention.”

“Let go of me,” McCullum hisses. “I’m fine.”

“You certainly aren’t. Cease your complaints and hold that damn scarf to the wound, _now_ ,” Jonathan orders in his firmest _listen to the fucking medical professional_ voice.

McCullum quiets and presses the scarf into his stomach with a grimace. He’s sweating and pale and his eyes have a glossy sheen that alarms Jonathan deeply. They make it to Pembroke in good time, though in Jonathan’s opinion it still takes far too long, with McCullum barely clinging onto consciousness. A nurse spots them and calls for a gurney; with admirable efficiency, they’ve gotten McCullum horizontal and wheeled into surgery with the attending physician, one Dr. Tippets. Jonathan watches them go, then sits in the lobby. The adrenaline has worn off, and exhaustion hits him like a ton of bricks. His eyes are heavy, his muscles ache, and his vision is swimming just a bit.

“Excuse me, sir? Dr. Reid, is it?”

Jonathan looks up tiredly at the nurse. “Yes, ma’am?”

She hands him a clipboard. “Would you be able to fill out some paperwork for your friend?”

“Oh, he isn’t quite my friend,” Jonathan corrects. “I found him on the street.”

The nurses furrows her brow and glances in the direction they took McCullum. “Ah. So you wouldn’t know any medical history or the sort?”

“Afraid not.”

“Personal information, then? Perhaps an address, where we might bill payment…”

Jonathan scrubs a hand over his face. He forgot about that. McCullum definitely can’t afford surgery and an extended hospital stay, which he will certainly need with a wound like his, even from a less esteemed institution such as Pembroke. Well, it isn’t like Jonathan doesn’t have the money, given his family’s estate and his own salary, which is spent almost solely on extra medical supplies and maybe a meal with Mary or Clarence, though those occasions have grown infrequent lately…

“Sir?”

Jonathan startles from his thoughts. “Apologies. Please send the bill to me. I will take care of it.” He provides the nurse the address of the Reid mansion.

“Oh. That’s very kind of you to do for a stranger, sir.”

“Perhaps he’s not really a stranger,” says Jonathan to himself as the nurse walks away. No, McCullum is more than that, now. An acquaintance, an interest. Maybe he could even be a friend.

Jonathan waits for news of McCullum’s condition and ends up passing out in a chair in the lobby. The same nurse shakes him awake as daylight streams through the water-stained windows.

“Your, hm, beneficiary is awake and healthy, Dr. Reid, if you’d like to see him.”

“Ah, yes. Please.” 

Massaging the crick in his neck, he follows the nurse to the west wing of the hospital. McCullum is laid up in a corner bed, rolling curtains offering an illusion of privacy. The nurse departs as Jonathan takes a seat on the stool by McCullum’s bed.

“I said no hospitals, didn’t I?” he grumbles in lieu of a greeting.

“I hope even you would prefer a hospital to certain death,” says Jonathan, a tad annoyed, though he does admire the man’s inextinguishable spirit.

“Crippling debt _is_ certain death for folk like me,” snaps McCullum.

Jonathan softens. He can’t even pretend to understand what it’s like to fear hospitals, to be unable to afford healthcare. “You don’t have to worry about the bill. Just focus on recovering.”

McCullum’s nose wrinkles in puzzlement. He’s incredibly expressive. Jonathan is so accustomed to dealing with coy high society gentlemen and stuffy researchers, of which he knows he is both. McCullum’s emotions, shining so clearly from his blue eyes and the shape of his mouth, or the tension in his square jaw, from the way his handsome brow furrows or his ears flush, the fervor whether born of youth or his different upbringing — it’s refreshing.

“Nothing in life is free, doc. Especially not…” his eyes widen, then narrow again in irritation. “Did you pay for my treatment?”

Jonathan hesitates. He isn’t in the habit of lying. But the moment of pause was enough for McCullum to draw the obvious conclusion, and McCullum’s features are now alight with fury.

“I’m not some fucking charity case, you rich arsehole. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t owe you shit for this,” he rages, loud enough that he is most surely disturbing the other patients.

“Of course not. You don’t owe me anything,” Jonathan says hastily. “I just wanted to help. I can’t in good conscience let someone die in the streets.”

McCullum purses his lips grimly. “Well, you should’ve. I’d be happier for it.”

“Don’t. Don’t say that. Life is a precious thing, Mr. McCullum. I’d pay any price to save one. To save yours.” 

For a minute, they are quiet. The ambient sounds of the hospital play like a melancholy choir as they gaze at each other, both dumbfounded by the intensity of Jonathan’s declaration.

“...Are you alright?” says McCullum, at last.

Jonathan tilts his head, bemused. “Am _I_ alright?”

“Yes, you. No one runs around stitching people up and paying hospital bills for free unless they’re a little off their rocker.” McCullum shrugs, the anger leaving him as he presumably resigns himself to talking to a madman. 

“I am not mad,” Jonathan says, insulted. “It is not madness to swear by an oath and then resolutely abide by it.”

McCullum looks at him sharply. For an instant, he seems _dangerous_. Which is foolish of Jonathan to think of a young man bedridden with a stab wound. “An oath?” he repeats.

“Yes. The Hippocratic Oath.”

“Ah, right,” McCullum deflates, “the good doctor, and all that. You take it to an extreme.”

“Perhaps. But I believe it is important to live one’s life by a strong set of principles. And the doctor’s oath has proven excellent guidance for me. That is why I have helped you, Mr. McCullum, and why I will continue to help you or anyone who needs it.”

“...Geoffrey. My name is Geoffrey.” The tips of his ears are red again.

Jonathan says, fondly, “Geoffrey, then. I’m pleased to have helped you.”

“I can’t say I’m too mad about it either. I didn’t mean what I said earlier. That I’d be happier if I was dead,” he elaborates. “I still have a lot to do.”

“Indeed. Your whole life is ahead of you. How old are you, if I may ask?”

“Twenty,” says Geoffrey, with a scowl like he’s displeased about it. Twenty is old. Old enough to vote, to drink, to own land, to fight in a war. But still, so terribly young. “How about yourself, doc?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Really? You look way older. It’s the beard and the doctor getup.”

Jonathan scratches, somewhat self-consciously, at his beard.

“Looks good on you,” Geoffrey says, gruffly. “Anyway, thanks. For saving me. I still don’t owe you anything, though.”

“No, you don’t.” Jonathan’s stomach flutters from the compliment. He dismisses it as hunger or exhaustion. It’s harder to dismiss, however, the hope that warms his chest and compels him to ask, “However, I would ask one small favor. Would you allow me to continue visiting you during your recovery?”

Geoffrey snorts. “You must be really lonely, doc.”

The comment stings in the way only truth can. He _is_ rather lonely. He’s immersed nearly nonstop in his work, and what few social relationships he has have dwindled; Clarence is devotedly courting Venus, and Mary is busy with her child. Jonathan visits her on occasion, but a newborn leaves little time for entertaining. And Jonathan’s mother… well, she hasn’t been the same since Father left, and he selfishly doesn’t like to see her much. She has Avery, in any case. Yes, Jonathan is, in fact, lonely. Geoffrey putting it into words makes him realize just how deep the feeling dwells.

“Perhaps a bit,” Jonathan admits. “I could use a friend.”

Geoffrey’s eyes widen. Then he looks away and says, “You can come visit if you want. I’ll get damn bored in this place, so.”

“I’ll strive to keep you entertained,” says Jonathan, pleased.

.

.

.

Over the next three weeks, he visits Geoffrey several times, mostly at odd hours of night after his shifts at the Temple Hospital end; the first time he arrives at around 3 o’clock in the morning, Geoffrey makes him pledge to always take a cab over (“Shouldn’t be too hard for a gentleman like you, doc, so just do it, alright?”). Jonathan is surprised to find Geoffrey is always awake, to which his companion says shiftily that he has a pretty nocturnal schedule due to his work. He doesn’t inquire further than that, though for him, that privately confirms Geoffrey's gang affiliation. Being from the nicer part of the city (and admittedly never venturing far into its remaining depths without some professional purpose), Jonathan is fairly oblivious to which gangs actually exist in London and which are just rumors created by out-of-touch socialites. He idly wonders Geoffrey fell into this dangerous lifestyle and, embarrassingly, how Jonathan might be able to assist him out of it. 

Of course, he never brings any of that up. They stick to safer topics of conversation when Jonathan drops by: stories from school days, discussion of Jonathan’s research (which Geoffrey shows surprising interest in once Jonathan clarifies the topic), or books they have mutually read. 

“I don’t read much. Got better things to do,” is Geoffrey’s first response to Jonathan’s inquiry as to his favorite books. After some probing, he confesses, “I like that one story by the French fellow. _The Count of Monte Cristo._ ”

Jonathan is not an avid fiction reader, preferring to pore over medical texts when he has free time, but there’s a special place in his heart for a certain few novels and plays, Dumas’ famous revenge story included; his father used to read it to him when he was a child. A lively discussion on the text occupies the remainder of their time, and on Jonathan’s next visit, he comes bearing a copy.

“From my library,” Jonathan says, chuffed to see a smile on Geoffrey’s face as he grasps the book. “I hope it will keep you entertained in the hours I am not here.”

“Don’t worry, the nurses’ arses do that just fine.” 

Jonathan sputters, shocked at the vulgarity, as Geoffrey erupts into a bout of laughter.

“You’re so damn proper, doc. We gotta train it out of you.”

“A sense of propriety is a suitable trait for a doctor, wouldn’t you agree,” recovers Jonathan.

“Suitable, maybe, but where’s the fun in that?”

Their playful discourse is a bright spot in Jonathan’s routine. Although his passion for medicine makes each minute he spends working a wonderful one, his mental and physical needs are, admittedly, not attended to by his exhausting lifestyle. It is soothing to spend an early morning by his new friend’s side, chatting or reading. Despite Geoffrey’s prickly demeanor at times, he’s a genuine pleasure to speak to. When Jonathan returns from Pembroke, he falls into a blissful sleep, drained of tension and no longer haunted by dreams of his lost father.

Just once, Jonathan overlaps with another visitor. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop when he lingers by the curtain before Geoffrey’s bed frame, but he still catches a snippet of conversation.

“...recover quickly, my son,” says another man in a deep, rumbling voice. Geoffrey’s father, then? “We have unfinished business. I have found a new lead on our quarry.”

“I’m ready now. I can leave this damned place tonight.”

“You would be a liability,” says the man, brusquely. “Return to us only when you are well. May your hatred fuel your recovery.”

The man swipes aside the curtain, his icy blue eyes fixing on Jonathan. He’s a tall man, even taller than Jonathan himself, and his face is carved in the likeness of a cruel gargoyle. He shoulders past Jonathan without another word.

“Hello, Geoffrey,” says Jonathan. Sensing that this will be a quiet visit, he pulls out the latest issue of The London Medical Journal and prepares to read.

“No questions?” Geoffrey says, coldly. He’s tense as a coiled snake, prepared and wanting a fight.

“Only if you are willing to give the answers.”

Geoffrey scoffs and shakes his head. “You’re too damn good for this world.”

Perhaps it is the bitterness to his tone, or the slumped curve of his shoulders that resonate with resigned dejection, but Jonathan cannot resist — he lays his palm over Geoffrey’s hand. Geoffrey’s lips part with surprise, and his brow lifts. The little wrinkles in his forehead make Jonathan’s heart squeeze; he looks unbearably innocent and good, something to be protected. A baby brother, or maybe…

Geoffrey intertwines their fingers and squeezes. Jonathan’s breath catches as he looks at their interlaced hands, as he strokes a thumb over Geoffrey’s warm skin.

Maybe something else. Something which Jonathan thought he left behind in France; those midnight, wine-spilled tumbles, granting him equal delight to any encounter with a woman. Desire stirs in his stomach, desire for this fierce young man, shrouded at once in mystery and boyish naivete. 

Oh, Jonathan _wants_.

.

.

.

At the end of Geoffrey’s convalescence, Jonathan rearranges his shift schedule (taking time off doesn’t even occur to him) to sign him out Pembroke and escort him home. Geoffrey is outwardly exasperated by Jonathan’s mother-henning, but the tips of his ears reveal a pleased flush. 

“Congratulations on your good health,” says Jonathan as they exit the hospital. It’s daylight, near noon, and Jonathan notices how Geoffrey’s eyes glitter in the sun’s rays. It’s striking how different he looks in the daylight. Not a brooding gang member, but rather a handsome, charming young man. One that you could introduce to your mother.

“Thanks, doc. All your credit, really,” Geoffrey says, nudging him. “But I…”

“Yes, yes. You don’t owe me a thing,” Jonathan interrupts, smiling. “And you really don’t. We’re friends, and I’d gladly help you again.”

“Friends,” repeats Geoffrey, slowly, like the word is unfamiliar to his tongue. “Yes, I s’pose we are.”

“Of course, that doesn’t mean you should run around getting stabbed in the dead of night again. Please keep that kind of behavior to a minimum.”

“Oh, you know me, doc. Us degenerate street rats can’t help it.”

Jonathan snorts fondly and signals for a cab. “Would this particular street rat care to join me for a celebratory lunch? Or I can take you straight home, if you need to rest.”

“Gods above, I’ve been resting for _weeks_ now. Let’s get some fucking grub.”

They decide upon a Parisian restaurant in West End, though Geoffrey takes some convincing to eat at a place populated by “smarmy, pompous arseholes”. Wanting to enjoy the rare flash of winter sunlight, Jonathan requests an outdoor table. Geoffrey takes one look at the incomprehensibly French menu and tosses it back on the table.

“I’ll just have whatever you’re having,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Apologies. I forgot not everyone knows French,” says Jonathan. Occasionally, he likes to play up the West End gentleman act just to rile Geoffrey up.

As usual, Geoffrey takes the bait. “You privileged fucking nutter, of course not everyone knows,” and now comes the moment Geoffrey realizes he’s fallen for it again, “god damn you, doc. Am I that simple?”

Jonathan laughs. “No, but I am. I see an opportunity, and I take it.”

“Just order for us already.”

The food comes quickly once the maître d’ catches sight of Jonathan, as does a complimentary bottle of white wine. 

“You some sort of celebrity?” Geoffrey says once he leaves, puzzled by the sheer enthusiasm the owner displayed at Jonathan’s patronage. 

“Not at all. A long time ago, my father bailed out this restaurant after they fell victim to an usurer. They’ve treated my family kindly since. We used to come here for dinner every Friday.”

“Shouldn’t you heathens have been observing Good Friday like the rest of us Catholics?” 

“We did. We observed it here, instead of the church,” says Jonathan primly.

“So did I,” Geoffrey chuckles, “at the bar, instead of the church. So, do you all still come? Or are you too busy being a hero for that.”

“Ah, well. My father died.” Jonathan clears his throat. “Presumably. He vanished, in actuality. Left without a note.”

Geoffrey looks at him. “Mate, I’m not sure how to break it to you…”

“He died,” Jonathan says, flatly. “He didn’t leave us.”

Geoffrey drops it. “Well, should we dig in?” 

“Yes, let us.”

Slowly, the tension diffuses as they enjoy their meal and glide into an easy back-and-forth. They work their way through the entire bottle of wine, and Jonathan attains a pleasant buzz. Geoffrey, despite his allusions to a lifestyle of heavy drinking, seems far more inebriated. His cheeks are attractively flushed, and Jonathan can’t help but wonder if his chest also gets a red glow, or if his skin is that sensitive, and how easy it would be to leave a mark on his pale flesh…

“Jonathan, is that you?” 

Clarence saunters up to their table, Venus on his arm — well, more the other way around. It’s clear to any onlookers that Venus is the one with the power.

“Good day Clarence,” says Jonathan, willing whatever sinful thoughts he was indulging in to evaporate, “and the lady Venus. How lovely to see you both.”

“Lovely indeed, Jonathan,” says Venus. “It’s been ages since we saw you. You must be terribly busy at the hospital.”

Jonathan smothers a frown. Venus knows perfectly well that she’s the reason Clarence hasn’t seen Jonathan lately. Clarence even flat-out told him that Venus wanted more time together, and besides, don’t you think two men spending so much time alone is going to give people the wrong idea? As though Jonathan is some leper because he’s never had a woman before. As though being devoted to science is so _wrong_.

“Yes, quite busy,” Jonathan agrees. “It’s a wonderful coincidence to run into you here.”

“It is,” says Clarence, with an apologetic little smile. “You should come over for dinner next week. We can catch up. My mother misses you terribly.”

“A wonderful idea. We’d be so happy to have you,” says Venus, inviting herself. Her and Clarence aren’t married and as such, don’t live together yet. 

“Wednesday, perhaps? My shift doesn’t start until quite late.”

“Wednesday is perfect,” says Clarence quickly.

“Yes, perfect,” says Venus. She turns toward Geoffrey and, as if noticing him for the very first time, exclaims, “Oh! And who is your… dining companion?”

Geoffrey plops an elbow on the table and says, chin in hand, “Geoffrey McCullum, my lady. At your service. I’m Dr. Reid’s little pet project.”

“Geoffrey is a good _friend_ of mine,” Jonathan interjects, “who I met recently at the hospital.”

“Are you a doctor, then? Or orderly?” Clarence asks awkwardly.

“A patient,” says Geoffrey, flashing his teeth, “in the insanity ward. Long-term.”

“Oh my,” says Clarence.

“He’s joking,” says Jonathan.

“Am I?”

“We’ll leave with you two be,” Venus declares, sniffing haughtily. “Jonathan, remember to join your real, appropriate friends for dinner next Wednesday. And don’t bring _that_. Good day.”

She flits off, dragging Clarence behind her. Jonathan grimaces as they go and says, “I apologize. That was unpleasant.”

“You don’t need to apologize for those smug toffs. I’m used to it.” Geoffrey frowns. “And you are too, eh? You’re one of ‘em.”

“I hope I’m not quite so obvious about it.”

“Your peacoat says otherwise, doc.”

Jonathan tugs at the lapels of his coat theatrically. Then, in a serious tone, he asks, “Geoffrey, about what you said. Being my ‘pet project’ and all.”

Geoffrey reaches for his wine. It’s empty. He grabs a piece of bread to tear apart instead. “What about it?”

“That’s not how I view you. Do you think that of our relationship?”

“I mean,” through a mouthful of bread, “older gent from West End helps out a poor bloke from the docks out of the goodness of his kind heart, changing his life for the better. Like a play, innit?”

Jonathan winces. When he puts it like that… “I think of you as my friend, my equal. And we aren’t too far apart in age.”

“Oh, come on, doc. Equal,” says Geoffrey, bitterly, “who’re you trying to fool? If we’re equal, how about you let me pick up the tab for this meal?”

“Geoffrey, I—” Jonathan begins.

“Listen, you won’t,” hisses Geoffrey, “because to you, I’m just a sorry fucking kid from the wrong side of town that you pity. A goddamn charity case with a fun little sob story for you to cry with all your friends about. Well guess what, doc, I’m a dime a dozen. So why don’t you find yourself a new project, alright? I’m finished with this sham.”

Before he can get up, Jonathan grabs his wrist, keeping him in place for a moment. “Geoffrey, please,” Jonathan says, hushed, forcing the words out, “that’s not it. Not at all. I… I care for you. As a friend, and.” His mouth snaps shut with a click.

Geoffrey stares at him. It dawns on him; his eyelashes flutter, he wets his lips prettily. Is he teasing, or is it subconscious? Jonathan can’t tell. He waits for a response, feeling like his heart might stop.

“Oh,” says Geoffrey. Then, he lowers his voice and asks, coyly, “Have you been _courting_ me? Are you wining and dining me right now?”

Jonathan releases his wrist reluctantly, not wanting to make a scene. Well, more of a scene. Because Jonathan has never been a coward, or more aptly because this thing with Geoffrey makes him feel unreasonably brave, he says, “Yes. I have.”

“ _Oh,_ ” says Geoffrey, and, “I think you should take me home after all, doc. I might need to have a lay.”

.

.

.

Jonathan doesn’t make it two steps into the flat before Geoffrey pounces. He grabs Jonathan by his coat lapels and pulls him in, pressing their lips and bodies together, a searing line of heat. Nips at Jonathan’s lips until Jonathan parts them, obliging, and the kiss turns open-mouthed, sloppy with want. Their outer layers are shed hastily and, in a display of impressive dexterity and multitasking, Geoffrey quickly unbuckles Jonathan’s belt and tosses it to the floor, then undoes the glossy brass buttons of his trousers.

“Wait,” says Jonathan, staying Geoffrey’s hand and drawing back. “We can…”

“Can what?” Geoffrey frowns at the interruption.

 _We can take it slow._ It’s almost too absurd to say out loud to Geoffrey, who’s all intense masculinity and youthful impatience. His experience with sex must be a vastly different affair from Jonathan’s university encounters with liberal Frenchmen — Jonathan imagines hurried encounters with fellow gang members or rough, back alley tumbles. He doesn’t want that for the two of them.

“You’ll see,” says Jonathan, and slots their mouths together again. He cups Geoffrey’s cheek, thumbing his cheekbone and rests his other hand on the small of Geoffrey’s back, bringing him gently closer. He kisses him softly, sensually, sucking on his bottom lip and tasting the sweet wine of their luncheon. Geoffrey surrenders to him, his head tilting back; Jonathan has a solid five inches on him, and now, despite Jonathan’s slimmer stature, he dwarfs him, draws him in with strong arms and envelops him in comforting warmth as they kiss for languid minutes.

“Am I a woman, doc?” Geoffrey says, breathless, when they part. His eyes are dark with lust, and Jonathan feels dizzy at the sight.

“Of course not,” says Jonathan, bending to kiss his stubbled jaw. “But that doesn’t mean I cannot romance you. That I cannot,” pecking the corner of his mouth, “kiss you like this.”

“You’re a fucking sap,” but Geoffrey shudders at the ministrations, and when Jonathan pulls away to smile and look into these gorgeous blue eyes, he sees the shy, pleased redness of Geoffrey’s ears.

“Show me to your bedroom?” Jonathan suggests.

“There’s only one other room,” Geoffrey says, deadpan, but laces their fingers together affectionately as he leads Jonathan through the doorway.

Geoffrey’s bedroom is small and occupied almost entirely by the bed. A dresser is shoved to the west side like an afterthought, with scattered papers and, unsurprisingly, a pistol atop it. Usually, Jonathan’s curiosity would drive him to flip through the papers, but there are more important matters at hand. He sits on the edge of the bed and maneuvers Geoffrey into his lap, so that Geoffrey’s thighs are spread enticingly on either side of Jonathan’s legs, and starts undoing the other man’s trousers.

Geoffrey squirms as Jonathan mouths as the junction of his neck, grinding down against Jonathan’s erection, straining inside his pants.

“You’re gorgeous,” says Jonathan. He sucks his slender fingers into his mouth and licks his palm, then wraps his hand around Geoffrey and squeezes, sweeps his thumb over the top of his cock. The head is wet and velvety, terribly alluring.

“Damn tease,” Geoffrey says, shivering, as Jonathan jerks him off slowly. He thrusts up into Jonathan’s grip and moans when Jonathan obligingly increases his pace.

Jonathan, eye level even now, leans in and murmurs in Geoffrey’s ear, “I’m going to make you come with my hands, get you nice and relaxed. Then, I’m going to fuck you until you’ve forgotten your own name,” he pumps Geoffrey faster, “and you’re going to come again with me inside you.” Geoffrey whimpers and rests his forehead against Jonathan’s shoulder, squirming again. Jonathan pecks his temple, paradoxically chaste.

“What if,” Geoffrey manages to say, “I wanna fuck you instead?”

Jonathan kisses him, sucking on Geoffrey’s tongue, deliberate and filthy, before he answers. “I’m afraid that’s not possible today, Geoffrey. No strenuous activity for you. You must simply lay back and enjoy yourself,” his smile is sultry and his eyes hooded with promise, “doctor’s orders.”

He lifts Geoffrey onto the bed, setting him on his back and helping him pull off his trousers. It leaves Geoffrey in only the thin white dress shirt Jonathan brought him earlier that day to leave the hospital in (as Geoffrey’s was stained with blood). The shirt was actually bought new and Jonathan sized up too much, for the cotton falls low on Geoffrey’s neck, revealing his muscular chest, and rumples attractively around his hips. His cock, shiny with spit and precome, juts up and curves, leaving a damp spot on the fabric.

“You should undress, too,” says Geoffrey. “I want to see what those fancy suits are hiding.”

Jonathan strips at a teasing pace, putting on a bit of a show. He has ample testimony from various bed partners that he’s well-built, lithe but powerful like a jungle cat. The sight of Geoffrey stroking himself as he watches Jonathan undress makes Jonathan’s cock throb hungrily. He wants to get his mouth on the man and his miles of pale skin, scarred in many places but no less beautiful.

“Beautiful,” Jonathan voices his thoughts, and, now fully nude, dips his head to suck at the junction of Geoffrey’s hip. He leaves a reddened mark behind — indeed, Geoffrey’s skin _is_ sensitive everywhere — and trails kisses downard, to the irresistible soft skin of his inner thighs. 

“I have some,” Geoffrey gasps as Jonathan lightly mouths at his balls, “oil in, ah, the dresser.”

“And I was so comfortable down here,” Jonathan sighs, and gets up to retrieve said oil. It’s in the top drawer, a tin of jelly: surgical aid, available only by prescription. He returns to the bed, unscrewing the jar. “How did you get this?”

Geoffrey groans. “You can worry about my illegal activities later, doc.”

“Apologies.” Jonathan coats his fingers in the fluid and rubs them together, warming it with the friction. “I’ll put my mouth to better use.”

He seals his lips over Geoffrey’s cock, sucking at the head. One finger probes at his puckered hole, then slides in with little resistance. Geoffrey twitches in his mouth, deliciously responsive, as Jonathan slowly moves his finger.

“Your fuckin’ mouth,” curses Geoffrey, nudging his hips up and his cock deeper between Jonathan’s lips, “goddamn. Why are you so good at this?”

In response, Jonathan hollows his cheeks, rewarded by a burst of precome. He retreats, lapping it up with his tongue, before bobbing his head down again. A second finger joins the first, scissoring inside Geoffrey’s tight hole, the sound of the oil squelching dirtily. He finger-fucks Geoffrey for minutes more, precise and insistent, opening him up wetly and delighting in his unrestrained noises.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Geoffrey moans as Jonathan crooks his fingers inside him, “oh, fuck, there, what…”

The prostate, provides Jonathan’s medical mind, a source of great pleasure for the male body when stimulated properly. He brushes his fingers deliberately over the spot again and Geoffrey’s entire body jolts as he gasps and his cock pulses, spilling his seed. Jonathan keeps his mouth around Geoffrey’s cock as he comes, but doesn’t quite swallow. He pulls off when Geoffrey has stilled and drips the come onto his hand, then coats his own cock with it.

“Oh, you’re,” Geoffrey pauses, his cheeks flushed with satisfaction, his pupils blown wide, “you’re going to…”

“I’m going to fuck with your own come, yes,” says Jonathan, lining up his cock to Geoffrey’s hole.

“Fuck,” breathes Geoffrey, which turns into a whimper when Jonathan nudges the head of his cock inside. He slides in; he’s fingered Geoffrey enough that, coupled with relaxed muscles from a recent orgasm, there isn’t much resistance. When he’s buried to the hilt inside of Geoffrey, he leans down and kisses him tenderly. Geoffrey moans into it as Jonathan moves his hips, thrusting in and out carefully as Geoffrey’s body adjusts. The tight heat of his walls is incredible around Jonathan, and he sweeps his tongue into Geoffrey’s mouth, wanting to be closer somehow, inside him in another fashion, as their kiss turns sloppy with lust.

He grabs Geoffrey’s thigh and moves it aside, spreading him open as he fucks him, pace quickening, the lewd sound of their skin meeting filling the room. Geoffrey is at half-mast again and gasps, overwhelmed _, ah, ah, ah_ , when Jonathan presses Geoffrey’s other knee up to his belly and fucks in, finding his prostate. 

“You feel incredible,” Jonathan says, moving upright so that he’s kneeling, able to get even deeper now, “so incredible, darling.”

Geoffrey throws an arm over his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m not your,” a wanton moan interrupts his protests, “fucking, ah, darling.”

“Aren’t you?” says Jonathan smugly. A slower thrust has Geoffrey canting his ass up greedily.

“Bastard,” Geoffrey groans, “shut the fuck up, and fuck me.”

Jonathan obliges. He grabs Geoffrey’s firm waist, holding him steady as he drives his cock inside, hard and fast. Geoffrey’s now fully erect cock bobs against his stomach, and Geoffrey wraps his hand around it, jerking himself off with delirious need. The sight is enough to make Jonathan’s balls tighten and he thrusts inside Geoffrey a few moments more, instincts consuming him and making him go _deeper_ , _harder_ , before he comes, groaning, and Geoffrey comes, too, oversensitive cock weakly spurting drops onto his stomach. 

“Holy hell,” says Geoffrey.

Jonathan chuckles. “Well said.” He pulls out and then lifts Geoffrey’s leg up a bit, examining his used hole, the come leaking from it. “Do you feel alright?”

Geoffrey snorts, incredulous. “No. You just fucked me within an inch of my life. What kind of doctor are you?”

“A terrible one, clearly. They should revoke my license post-haste.” Jonathan leans over the side of the bed and rummages through his discarded trousers, emerging triumphant with a handkerchief.

“I can wipe my own damn arse,” complains Geoffrey, but he bonelessly lets Jonathan clean him up. 

Satisfied with their hygiene (though a quick wash would be preferable), Jonathan crawls up to Geoffrey and lays beside him, pulling him into his arms. To his surprise, Geoffrey snuggles closer without comment, burying his face into Jonathan’s neck and then kissing it once, twice, like he’s unable to help himself. 

“No smart remarks about cuddling?” says Jonathan.

“Everyone likes a good cuddle,” Geoffrey says.

Jonathan smiles and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. He’s glad to not have to rope Geoffrey into this brand of affection, at least. 

“You know, I misjudged you,” Geoffrey mumbles into the crook of his neck.

“Oh? How so?”

“You’re not so proper at all, really.” 

Jonathan laughs and tightens his arms around Geoffrey, relishing in the heat of his bare body, his skin. “No, I suppose I’m not, darling.”

“Christ, don’t call me that,” in a quieter voice, “in front of other people.”

“Certainly, darling,” says Jonathan, beaming.

.

.

.

Jonathan stays at Geoffrey’s flat for a while longer, indulging in a short nap as they hold each other. But duty calls, and he calls a cab to return to the surgery. A long time ago, before his father left, the Reids had a driver and a private lorry, but nowadays they all mostly stay in West End (with the exception of Jonathan’s recent trips to Pembroke). As the streets of London roll past, Jonathan thinks that he’ll probably be doing much more travelling now to see Geoffrey — a car of his own would be nice. Perhaps he should invest. They could even take a trip together, somewhere private, perhaps the Reid summer house down south. 

He finds himself returning to these daydreams throughout his shift, in the tiny pockets of time that he isn’t rushing about assisting with a surgery or shadowing a senior doctor. When it comes time to head to the lab, thoughts of Geoffrey fill his head instead of medical sciences. Geoffrey enjoying his meal with a contented quirk to the corner of his lips, Geoffrey reading peacefully in the hospital bed, Geoffrey flushed and panting beneath him…

“Damn it all,” says Jonathan, and decides to call it a night (morning). He isn’t going to get anything done in this state.

Avery is awake when he enters the mansion, and offers to pour Jonathan a nightcap even though it’s 4:30 in the morning. Bless him. Jonathan accepts gratefully and heads to bed with a buzz, the expensive malt and visions of Geoffrey beckoning him into a restful slumber.

He wakes around ten o’clock after a reasonable five hours of sleep. His next shift at the hospital starts at three, so he calls a cab to Geoffrey’s flat and hopes for the best. At the very least, he can check on some patients in the area; he brings a well-stocked medicine bag with him.

To his disappointment, nobody answers when he knocks on Geoffrey’s door. It was a long shot. Geoffrey is an able-bodied young man who recently got released from nearly a month of infirmity; it would be strange if he _was_ at home, lounging and waiting for Jonathan as he’d hoped. A tad embarrassed at his presumptuousness, Jonathan hastens to finish his rounds in the area. Mrs. Fishburn has a nasty cold and is a bit elderly to be travelling to the hospital during winter. Mr. Livermore sprained his ankle on the job and could use some more pain medication, though the glint in his eyes when Jonathan hands it to him is a bit suspicious. 

Jonathan is finished with his circuit and strolling past a bar when he spots Geoffrey through the window. He heads inside to greet him but stops; Geoffrey is with the hulking man from the hospital, the one who might be his father. They’re at a table together, talking in low tones with immensely grim expressions, their glasses untouched. Jonathan orders a coffee and hangs at the bar, waiting until the other man leaves. Then he approaches Geoffrey, who’s staring out the window at the docks and doesn’t notice him until he’s sat down.

“Dr. Reid,” says Geoffrey, brow lifting in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Call me Jonathan, please. And I was passing by while performing some at-home visits, and I saw you through the window.” 

“Did you now?”

Jonathan smiles winsomely. “I did stop by your flat first. I wanted to see you.”

“Oh. Well, I,” Geoffrey stumbles at the honesty, “I… wanted to see you, too, Jonathan.” 

There’s no one in the establishment besides the barkeep, an elderly Mr. Watts who is practically falling asleep at the counter. Jonathan dares to take Geoffrey’s hand under the table and lace their fingers together.

“Would you be free to meet me at Temple Park this weekend for a stroll? Perhaps a picnic, if that’s to your liking,” Jonathan adds.

“Two men on a picnic?”

“We’re simply close friends enjoying each other’s company.” Jonathan brushes his thumb over Geoffrey’s knuckles. 

Geoffrey’s ears go red. Jonathan wants so badly to kiss him. “Alright. I’d like that,” says Geoffrey, his mouth twisting like he’s smothering a smile.

“Saturday, then? 1 o’clock?” 

“I’ll be there.”

Jonathan smiles and squeezes his hand once before, reluctantly, releasing it. “Good. I look forward to it. I should best be off to the hospital now.” 

“Bye, doc.” 

Jonathan can’t resist. He leans in close and whispers, “I’ll be thinking of you until then, darling.”

Now, Geoffrey’s cheeks match his ears, spots of color on his sculpted cheekbones. He says, “Me, too. Now get out of here, you toff.”

“I’m going,” says Jonathan. 

He thinks of Geoffrey’s adorably embarrassed face the whole way back.

.

.

.

On Saturday morning, Jonathan wakes up early to help Avery prepare the picnic. Or rather, he tries to help Avery but is swiftly ushered out of the kitchen and into the sitting room to have a cup of tea with his mother. Evelyn Reid is having a good day, fortunately, and they chat idly about the upcoming yuletide and brainstorm gifts for Mary. He even tells her about his new friend Geoffrey, though he leaves out the details about his socioeconomic background. His mother is prone to the same prejudices as the Crossleys.

Noon trickles past and brings with it a fortuitous burst of sunlight. Jonathan sets up the blanket an hour ahead and reads the text his mother pressed into his hands. _“You need to stay cultured, my dear boy. Being a doctor is well and good, but acting a gentleman is far more important.”_ So he dutifully slogs through the first pages of some Shakespeare play, only half-processing the words.

Geoffrey finds him at a quarter to one, evidently having arrived early as well. Jonathan stands to greet him, shaking his hand and hugging him, friendly, though his hand lingers on Geoffrey’s back longer than appropriate.

“It’s wonderful to see you.”

“You, too, doc.” Geoffrey plops down on the blanket. “What d’you got for me today?” 

“The finest cuisine in all of England,” Jonathan says, opening the picnic basket with a flourish.

“Sandwiches?”

“Sandwiches.”

They munch on the sandwiches (which, to Avery’s credit, are pretty fantastic), and trade a bottle of wine back and forth. The alcohol keeps them warm once the sun vanishes behind grey winter clouds, though Jonathan still notices Geoffrey shivering. 

“Here,” Jonathan says, unraveling his scarf, “take this.”

“You immune to cold or something, doc?”

“No, but I promise my coat is warmer than yours.” Jonathan’s wool coat with his fur trim (the latest fashion, cooed Mary last year) is indeed far more protective than Geoffrey’s oversized cotton blend. Jonathan drapes the scarf around Geoffrey’s neck before he can protest. “There.”

Geoffrey huffs, “Thanks. It’s your fault I need it at all, though. Inviting me to a bloody picnic in this weather...”

“My fault entirely,” agrees Jonathan. The maroon-colored scarf looks excellent paired with Geoffrey’s pale skin and blue eyes. Well, anything would look excellent. Jonathan is perhaps a bit biased.

Geoffrey bunches his neck into the fabric until his nose touches it and inhales. “Smells like you.”

“Like antiseptic and chemicals?” says Jonathan. As someone who spends 90% of his waking hours in a hospital or lab, he can’t imagine he smells very enticing.

“Nah,” Geoffrey shrugs, “not really. Smells good. You wear cologne?”

It’s Jonathan's turn to be embarrassed. “Not usually. I may have put a spritz on this morning…”

“Have someone to impress, doc?” Geoffrey teases.

“Yes,” Jonathan doubles-down, “a very special someone. I do hope they know just how special they are.”

“You are such a sap.” But he’s smiling, and Jonathan is, too, and there they are, two saps smiling at each other on a picnic in the dead of winter.

Unfortunately, such sweet moments cannot last forever. The sky begins to darken and they pack up, preparing to part ways. The park is blissfully empty, but nonetheless they stroll to a secluded area underneath a bridge to say a more intimate goodbye. Jonathan crowds Geoffrey up against the stone wall and wraps his arms around his midsection, hugging him tightly.

“If only you could come home with me,” he sighs. “I never thought I would dread going to work so much.”

“You don’t really,” Geoffrey says.

He’s right. Work is still his lifeblood, his passion. Research still makes his heart sing and his days have color. “No, not really. But if anyone could make me feel differently,” says Jonathan, “it would be you.”

“We’ve known each other for a month, doc. Do you really feel so strongly about some odd bloke from the wrong side of town?” The words are doubtful, but Geoffrey’s eyes shine with hope. Such raw emotion, such beauty. How can Jonathan not fall for him?

“Of course,” Jonathan confesses. “Do you?”

Geoffrey brings his gloves hands up to Jonathan’s face, cupping his frost-bitten cheeks and says, fondly, “Maybe so. We’re a pair of nutters, aren’t we?”

“Indeed, it is I who am mad,” Jonathan quotes, kissing the corner of his mouth, “and you are but giving me a proof that passion blinds the most balanced minds.”

.

.

.

Winter passes in this fashion: clandestine strolls through different parks around the city, impassioned encounters in Geoffrey’s flat, the occasional luncheon or dinner when their schedules align.They see each other once or twice a week at most, but each meeting feels simultaneously like it lasts an eternity, and no time at all. Jonathan dreams of Geoffrey’s company often and wonders where he is, if he’s safe. He tried, once, to probe at Geoffrey’s gang affiliation, just a simple, “What is it that you do day-to-day?”, but Geoffrey’s expression had turned so dark and grotesque that Jonathan immediately dropped the subject.

Jonathan supposes he doesn’t really _want_ to know. Not yet.

So he files away his concerns about Geoffrey’s nocturnal habits, bloodstained clothes, and the neurotic manner in which he refuses to remove his cross necklace, not even during intercourse. He bandages Geoffrey up when he comes knocking at Jonathan’s window in the dead of night (Jonathan may have installed a “fire escape” ladder and rearranged some crates to ease the climb) with various cuts and bruises, kissing him after to prevent himself from asking questions. Perhaps it isn’t the healthiest way to deal with matters, but Jonathan figures that Geoffrey will tell him when he’s ready. They have time.

Christmas is spent with family at the Reid mansion; Mary and her family come over and Avery cooks up a veritable feast, whistling cheerfully as the house is full of life again. Evelyn sees no phantoms, for once, and is so lucid that she even remembers who Dylan is. Jonathan rocks his nephew to sleep by the warmth of the fireplace, Mary watching him with tired but loving eyes, and everything is peaceful. 

In the privacy of his bedroom, Jonathan opens the present Geoffrey got him. They exchanged gifts a couple days ago, knowing that they would both be busy with other obligations on the holiday itself. He unwraps the parcel with absurd care, given that it’s just bundled with layers of crumpled brown paper. A timepiece with a gold chain lies inside the unassuming wrapping. It’s freshly polished and clearly quite expensive -- an absolutely stunning piece. Jonathan doesn’t think about where Geoffrey may have gotten it. After all, for all he knows, it’s a family heirloom.

The next time he sees Geoffrey, Jonathan has it in his pocket, the gold chain clipped visibly to his vest. 

“Fancy new watch,” Geoffrey remarks when he notices. “How did I snag me such a posh bugger?”

“You’re terribly charming,” says Jonathan, delighting in Geoffrey’s bashful look.

Just like Geoffrey wears Jonathan’s scarf daily, weather be damned, the watch remains a permanent addition to Jonathan’s wardrobe.

.

.

.

January drifts by, then February. Jonathan’s colleagues (or at least his boss) recognize his capabilities and his workload is shifted to less menial, nurse-like tasks, and he’s given more freedom to conduct his research. This also results in more free time in general, but unfortunately Geoffrey seems busier than ever, and in fact proves rather elusive. He doesn’t drop by Jonathan’s house or make arrangements to meet at the flat, and by the time Geoffrey misses their monthly Temple Park picnic, Jonathan realizes he hasn’t seen the other man in over two weeks. Concerned, he hails a cab and heads straight for the docks.

Geoffrey isn’t home, so Jonathan heads to the nearby bar. Mr. Watts is a terrible gossip, and surely would know something of Geoffrey’s whereabouts. 

“McCullum, eh?” says Mr. Watts, rubbing a glass with a rag. “What’s a nice fella like you doing, hangin’ around that scoundrel?”

“I don’t discriminate when it comes to patients, sir,” Jonathan deflects. 

“Hmph. Maybe you should,” grumbles Mr. Watts. “Well, I hear those Priwen lunatics have been causing a fuss near Whitechapel recently. Runnin’ about the cemetery at night doing god-knows-what. Bunch of good-for-nothing grave robbers, if you ask me.”

Grave-robbers. Jonathan pales and touches the gold chain attached to his person. He certainly hopes Mr. Watts is speaking nonsense. 

“Right. I will go ask around there, then. Thank you.”

“Ah, hold it,” Mr. Watts erupts into a sudden coughing fit, hacking into the rag. Then he collects himself and continues to wipe the glass down. Jonathan winces, “if you want to find a Priwen boy, you best go at night. But be careful. Those thugs only travel in packs.”

“Are they terribly dangerous?”

Mr. Watts scowls. “As dangerous as any o’ the others. Real prone to makin’ folk disappear.”

God, what has Geoffrey gotten himself into? Jonathan curses his own negligence. How could he think that his Geoffrey’s _violent gang affiliation_ would be an acceptable matter to _ignore_? 

He hurries back to the hospital, where he cites a family emergency and takes the night off. Then he goes home to grab his father’s old revolver and ponders informing the police about the whole affair. However, he can’t risk that possibility Geoffrey is actually _involved_ in whatever illegal activities may or may not be taking place at the cemetery. 

So, after hours of anxious pacing and doubting the wisdom of chasing down his missing (?) lover to a seedy cemetery, Jonathan slides into a cab that rumbles toward Stonebridge. It’s past ten o’clock when the lorry arrives. West End is probably still bursting with people going to the cinema or bistro for a lively Saturday night, but the cemetery is characteristically quiet. 

Jonathan strolls to the front gate at a deceptively sedate pace. He’s a simple mourner here to pay his respects. Nothing to see here. Head down, he clenches the pistol tightly under his coat, running his fingers along the gun’s sleek metal. The last time he held a weapon was when he bought Geoffrey’s Christmas present: an custom-made, upgraded parabellum pistol. He hopes Geoffrey has the weapon with him now.

There are, notably, a number of men in black clothing skulking about. As Mr. Watts said, they only appear in groups of two or three, eye him suspiciously, then move on once they assess him. Jonathan doesn’t know what or who they’re looking for, and he doesn’t want to find out. But also, once he makes a few loops around the cemetery and sees no sign of Geoffrey, he figures actually talking to one of them is their best bet.

“Excuse me,” he calls out to the next group he sees. 

The shortest one stops and regards him inquisitively. “Good evening, sir. Can we help you?”

“I hope so,” Jonathan says, encouraged by his politeness. “I’m looking for Geoffrey McCullum. Have you seen him?”

“McCullum? What would a bloke like you want with him?” interjects a larger, bearded man in a trench coat. 

Jonathan has sudden deja vu to his conversation with Mr. Watts. “Ah, excuse my manners. My name is Dr. Jonathan Reid of Temple Hospital. He’s a patient of mine. I haven’t seen him in a while, and I was concerned. I’ve heard that he’s been seen at this cemetery.”

“I’ve never known McCullum to see any fancy West End doctors,” sneers the man.

“If you take me to him, he can assure you of our mutual acquaintance,” Jonathan says with more confidence than he feels.

“Ah, leave the bastard be,” says the first one, “he’s clearly harmless. You can find McCullum in that building by the tombs,” pointing to the east, “Just head up the stairs.”

“Thank you.”

Jonathan follows the directions to what appears to be an abandoned funeral parlor. He climbs the stairs and pushes open a rickety wooden door, stepping over the threshold. Immediately, he finds himself shoved against the wall and pinned by a powerful weight, the press of something unmistakably sharp to his chest. 

“Geoffrey,” says Jonathan, relief flooding his veins, “you’re alright.”

“Jonathan?” Geoffrey steps back, blinking and perplexed. He shoves whatever weapon he used to threaten Jonathan back into the folds of his coat. “What are you… Why are you here?”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks. I was worried something might have happened.” Jonathan chases the lost contact and embraces him. “But you’re in perfect health, from what I can see. Thank God.”

“I’m fine, doc,” Geoffrey says. He melts into the hug, though, assuaging Jonathan’s worries that Geoffrey perhaps just wasn’t interested anymore. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that, hunting me down here. Do you have a fucking death wish?” 

“Not particularly. Besides, your associates were, hm, fairly friendly.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about,” Geoffrey mutters. “There are other dangers lurking in the night.”

“I know. I brought a gun.”

“No, really? The good doctor, carrying a _gun_? You do know that those can kill people.”

Jonathan smiles sheepishly. “It was my father’s. I’m not entirely sure it’s still functional, but I imagined the threat of it would work in a pinch.”

“You’re an idiot,” Geoffrey deadpans.

“I’ll have you know that I have _two_ degrees…”

“Geoffrey. Who is this?” 

They spring apart. Jonathan adjusts his tie self-consciously. Before them stands the man from the hospital, his Boschian features amplified by the dark of night.

“This is Dr. Reid. He’s a… friend,” Geoffrey says, though there’s no mistaking the intimacy of their previous embrace.

The man snorts derisively (ah, so that’s where Geoffrey gets it from). “Say goodbye to your _friend_ , then. Our hunt begins in earnest tonight.”

He stalks past them and out the door, leaving only a cold draft and colder words behind.

“Are you going somewhere?” asks Jonathan, breaching the tense silence.

Geoffrey avoids eye contact as he says, “Yes. I’m leaving England for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Can’t be sure. Could be a few months. Could be years. I might…”

“You might never return,” Jonathan finishes for him. His stomach rolls in an awful parody of the butterflies he often feels around Geoffrey.

“Yeah.” Geoffrey shuffles, leaning against the wall.

“I’ll wait for you, then,” Jonathan says, feeling pathetic and irrational. But he has no other choice, nothing else to say.

Geoffrey snaps, “Don’t.”

But Jonathan is determined, now. He steps closer, cupping Geoffrey’s face with both hands. He’s beautiful, even with a twisted expression of regret and anguish.

“I will wait for you. However long,” Jonathan declares, and _means it._ “I’ll wait for you, darling.”

“You don’t even know me,” says Geoffrey, shakily. “You don’t even know why I’m leavin’ or what I’m doing or, or what I do at all. You don’t know the blood on my fucking hands, the shadows that haunt me.”

Jonathan rests his forehead against Geoffrey’s, their noses and lips brushing. “I know that I love you. Whatever you’re hiding — I care not. Call me mad; call me blind. I _love_ you. You’ve unbalanced me terribly.”

Geoffrey shudders and closes his eyes. “Don’t love me. Just let me go. Forget about me and live your life, doc. Marry a lady from West End and have children and be happy.”

“Never. Without you, the voice of my heart is a very sad one, and promises nothing but unhappiness.” Jonathan brushes his thumbs over Geoffrey’s cheeks, over the tiny scar there. He doesn’t know the story behind it, or behind most of Geoffrey’s many scars. But he would wait an eternity for the chance to learn it. Jonathan has not felt this sort of passion for anything besides medicine before — this all-consuming fire, this burst of light that transforms his whole world.

“Stop it. Stop with your sappy fucking quotes, like that’ll change anything.” Geoffrey tears away suddenly, shoving him back. His blue eyes turn icy, his features flattening out, blank. He says, emotionlessly, “You’re the only one in love here. We had fun together, but that was it. I’m leaving and I won’t look back. You’re a side story to my grand quest. I have a purpose to my life that you’re not part of. I won’t think of you and I won’t wait, so don’t bother waiting for me.”

Jonathan knows that’s not true. He _knows_. But it still hurts, horrible and piercing, like there’s a clawed hand digging into his heart. He swallows, trying to find the right words or the wrong ones, whatever will make Geoffrey look at him with something other than that mask of indifference.

“Goodbye, Dr. Reid. Have a nice life, or don’t. I don’t care.” 

He starts for the door. When Jonathan goes after him, he whirls around, a jagged knife pointed toward Jonathan.

“Don’t come after me.” 

Jonathan flinches, but takes another step forward. “Geoffrey, it doesn’t…”

There’s a flash of movement and then sharp pain beneath his left eye. Jonathan touches it instinctively. His fingers come away bloody. Geoffrey really cut him. A superficial wound, but nonetheless—

“Next time, it’ll be your eye. Leave me alone, creep.”

This time, when he leaves, Jonathan doesn’t follow.

.

.

.

He doesn’t see Geoffrey again for nine years.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, that evil-looking man is carl eldritch. i just couldn't figure out a way to work his name in there without also calling him "carl" which is an ABSURD name for a scary hunter (no offense to any carls) or "eldritch" which is absurd but on the opposite end of the spectrum
> 
> part 2 (covering the game/post-game) is in progress but might take a while. i binge wrote this in 2 days and need a break lol


	2. PART 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as i was writing, i realized game canon and post-game are going to be vastly different in terms of tone, so this chapter only covers game canon.
> 
> it's short because i didn't want to rehash what we all know, but i hope you enjoy nearly 4k of Jonathan's Patented Dramatic Vampire Angst. even slipped some John Donne in there because i am Weak and tell me Lady Ashbury wouldn't dig John Donne. tell me

_London, 1918_

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.

.

Clouds encircle the moon, casting a black shroud over London. Jonathan looks up bitterly at the opaque sky. Is it not enough that he is deprived of the sun? Must the moonbeams, too, be hidden from his cursed gaze?

He leaps to the balcony of his office at Pembroke, shadows swirling on his heels. Although convenient, he hates the sensation, the look of it: darkness haunting his every step, inescapable, a grim pronouncement of his bestial nature. Oh, how he wishes the bullet worked that first, terrible night. Often, he fantasizes about his own lifeless body — about throwing himself upon a Priwen stake or pyre. But then he remembers not only his conviction to find the cause of his affliction, but also his solemn oath to protect and promote the health of England’s citizens. As both soldier and doctor, he is doubly sworn to it. Jonathan would be truly despicable if he were to give up to the cleansing flame of death while London is in chaos.

So, he perseveres. Now that Mary’s funeral is over, there is work to be done, there are lives to save. He must atone — must see Dr. Swansea and inquire as to the reason for the chaos in the hospital. 

Jonathan swipes a syringe off his workstation and stabs it in his neck, injecting a blood serum to improve his color. He’s found that the more blood in his system, the less translucent his skin becomes. Although Edgar seems to admire more than revile Jonathan’s condition, Jonathan prefers to look as human as possible when interacting with the residents of Pembroke. 

In the hallway, he senses another human in Edgar’s office. A man with a strong, healthy pulse and sweet-scented blood (though all blood smells enticing to Jonathan, starved as he is). Both their heart rates are elevated, and Jonathan doesn’t need his enhanced hearing to detect the muffled argument. He hopes Edgar isn’t in any trouble.

“...be trusted to run this place,” snaps the stranger.

“You may have your opinions, but they shall remain that. Pembroke is not under your jurisdiction or power in the slightest.”

“All of London is under our jurisdiction. You’d best remember that,” the stranger growls, and that seems a good point for Jonathan to intervene. 

He pushes open the door and steps inside the office. “Good evening, Dr. Swansea. Is there trouble?” he asks.

Edgar, holding a skull for whatever bizarre reason, smiles in relief upon seeing him. “Ah, Jonathan. No, not at all. I was just…” 

But Jonathan doesn’t hear another word. The noise is drowned out by his own cacophonous heartbeat as the visitor turns around and he sees, impossibly— “Geoffrey?”

It _is_ Geoffrey. Not a distorted parody of him as Jonathan has seen in the London streets before. Not a delusional vision of the war, his visage pasted on the mutilated bodies laden in the trenches. Not a hazy dream leaving Jonathan with an ache in his chest.

He’s taller now, close to Jonathan’s height, and built like an ox. His face has new lines to it and he carries himself differently; no longer a sullen young man knee-deep in trouble, Geoffrey now has an unmistakable air of confidence, his previous cockiness transformed into a rugged charisma. His eyes are still so stunningly blue. It’s _him._ Undoubtedly.

Jonathan doesn’t even know what to say, where to begin. After so many years, he’d thought Geoffrey was dead — from the war or the epidemic or whatever mysterious quest he set out on. Never again did Jonathan expect to see him in London, and at the Pembroke no less. Maybe Geoffrey thought the same of him. Or maybe he truly didn’t think of Jonathan at all. For a second, or maybe an hour, they simply stare at one another.

“Are you two acquainted?” Edgar interrupts.

Jonathan answers, “Yes,” at the same time Geoffrey scowls and says, viciously, “I don’t know any fuckin’ leeches.”

Jonathan flinches. He recalls, now, the name of the gang Geoffrey was involved with: _Priwen_. It’s no wonder he thought the name was familiar. A great many things about the other man’s past behavior suddenly make sense. The cross, the nocturnal schedule, the incessant injuries.

“You’re keeping this monster in the hospital?”

“Yes, _my_ hospital,” asserts Edgar. “And he is no ‘monster’. This is the esteemed Dr. Jonathan Reid, a leading expert in British medical sciences.”

Unmistakable recognition flashes across Geoffrey’s features before his eyes shutter with cold fury. “A leech doctor. That can only end in a bloody death for you all, Swansea. It already has.”

Edgar waves his hand dismissively. “I assure you, Jonathan poses no harm to our patients. In fact, he is quite the boon to our institution. Now, I believe our conversation is over, McCullum, unless you have nothing better to do than hurl senseless insults at our staff members.”

“This is far from over. Priwen is watching you closely.”

Geoffrey strides toward the door. As he passes, Jonathan snaps out of his astonishment and reaches out to touch Geoffrey’s shoulder, to make him pause and _look_ at him.

“Don’t fucking touch me, leech,” Geoffrey snarls, lifting a cross. The symbol shines with blinding light, and Jonathan instinctively scuttles backwards to a darkened corner of the room. Geoffrey smirks, sickly satisfied.

“Geoffrey, don’t you,” Jonathan manages to say through the pain, “remember me? Your scarf, it’s. It’s mine.”

Geoffrey tugs at the fabric around his neck. Indeed, it’s the same maroon scarf Jonathan gave him all those years ago, undeniable proof that Jonathan meant _something_ to him. 

“I got this from an old friend, not a monster. Stay away from me. The next time we meet, I’ll kill you.” He stalks away, slamming the door shut behind him.

Jonathan slumps against the wall, drained. Of course Geoffrey is a vampire hunter. Of course Jonathan is his quarry now, a mindless beast from his view. Jonathan cannot exactly contest that, either. Had he, crazed with hunger, not murdered his own sister? He is doing everything he can to redeem himself, yet he cannot change what has already been done.

“You do know each other then,” says Edgar cautiously.

“A long time ago.” Jonathan sighs. “Not that it matters, I suppose. He’s with Priwen, now.”

“Yes. The leader of the Guard of Priwen, actually. And whatever your history, I advise you to stay far, far away from Geoffrey McCullum and his militant band of fanatics.”

The _leader_. What a hopeless and terrible love to rediscover.

.

.

.

Now that he is aware of Geoffrey’s presence in London, it is all too easy for Jonathan to spot his person. Leading a patrol around the docks, barking orders to his men in the Whitechapel headquarters, annihilating a group of skals with disturbing zeal. Geoffrey is everywhere; and Jonathan, drawn helplessly to his orbit, stops and lingers when he senses his old flame, watching Geoffrey’s activities in both concern and desirous sorrow before finally forcing himself to move on. 

Jonathan remembers the months after Geoffrey’s departure — the unhealthy intensity with which he devoted himself to his work, the hours of sleepless nights spent in the laboratory, desperate to escape his own torturous thoughts. It was then that he made the breakthrough that would eventually lead to the development of his blood transfusion theory and technique. An unforgettable, awful period, but a productive one. Jonathan works best when under some amount of duress.

Over time, the grief faded. He took other lovers and even engaged in a prolonged courtship with a young woman Clarence introduced him to, though none of them managed to engender the same dreamlike passion he felt for Geoffrey. They were distractions or relationships maintained to appease his social circle. And besides, it all ended abruptly when he was drafted into the war. 

Almost four years of inhuman horror. Of seeing rat-bitten corpses and slipping on intestines, of comrades choking on their own blood, on the blade in their throat, of peeling skin and flesh, festering and yellowed, of guilt and, later, dull resignation as Jonathan couldn’t save them, couldn’t save much of anyone. He saw not only Geoffrey in the eyes of dead men and live ones, but also himself. He’d been so sure that they were both dead, and that the days were hell or purgatory, perdition for his sins. 

Faced now with his lost love and the impenetrable wall that separates them, the line between beast and human, dead and living, Jonathan can only watch Geoffrey’s life from afar, a ghoulish stalker. Once, he is almost caught. Has to flee into the sewers to escape the patrol group’s shimmering crosses and leads them straight to a nest of sewer dogs. Cursing his own carelessness, Jonathan leaps out of hiding and, with a column of blood, spears the one circling Geoffrey before slipping away in the chaos of battle. 

He keeps his distance from Geoffrey after that mess. Only pauses when he hears the drum of the other man’s heartbeat before he vanishes into the night. There is work to be done, and Jonathan should not indulge in distractions.

.

.

.

True to his word, Geoffrey attempts to kill Jonathan upon their next (mutual) encounter. Jonathan’s pleas of innocence fall upon death ears, and he is forced to battle Geoffrey in that godforsaken chamber, artificial sunlight searing his skin. Jonathan does his best to incapacitate the other man without hurting him terribly, dodging his attacks in a battle of attrition until, at last, Geoffrey lets his guard down and Jonathan springs forward to disarm him. Tendrils of shadow tear the sword from Geoffrey’s hand while Jonathan breaks his other arm in order to smash the attached crossbow. The cry of pain it elicits makes guilt churn in Jonathan’s belly, but a broken limb is far preferable to an execution. A rapid series of strikes with the blunt edge of Jonathan’s sword is enough to batter Geoffrey into submission. And so the glorious leader of the Guard of Priwen falls to his knees, Jonathan looming over his hunched body. 

“We are the guardians of justice,” grits out Geoffrey, proud even in defeat. “Priwen shall prevail.”

Jonathan crouches so that they are eye level. “Geoffrey, we aren’t enemies. We both seek to stop this epidemic.”

“Your lies are pointless. I know you and Swansea conspired to create this madness.”

“We did _not_. I’m a doctor, Geoffrey. You know my commitment to healing. You know me—”

“— _I don’t know you_ ,” Geoffrey snarls, with deep and bitter loathing that Jonathan has heard only in the fields of war. “You’re just a monster wearing the face of someone I knew.”

Frustrated, Jonathan grabs him by the chin and forces Geoffrey to look him in the eye. “It’s still me. I may not be human anymore but I am still _me._ And I still, after all this time,” he falters, because does he? Does he still love Geoffrey? This twisted version of him who leads a gang that thinks nothing of stepping on innocents for their justice? Who’s indiscriminately executed Jonathan’s kind with furious pleasure? Who, seconds prior, was trying his damndest to cleave Jonathan’s head off?

“I still love you,” says Jonathan, pitiably. “I am still blind, when it comes to you.”

“Leeches cannot feel love.” Geoffrey’s gaze is unyielding, stony. “I won’t fall for your tricks. Stop toying with me and kill me. I know your kind can’t resist the siren song of fresh meat. Bleed me dry, leech, get it over with.”

“I would never hurt you. I, just now, you gave me no choice,” he says when Geoffrey scoffs.

“There’s always a choice. You could have chosen to die, recognize the folly of your existence. But you’re a beast, and beasts rely only on instinct. Of course you would choose violence instead.”

Jonathan releases him, disturbed. “You have no idea how much I want to die. How much this existence torments me. But I cannot. I have a duty to London. I must save these people. I must save you.”

He has wasted enough time. There is evidently no getting through to Geoffrey, not with the epidemic ongoing and whatever mistaken proof Geoffrey has corrupting his mind. Jonathan stands and strides toward the elevator with renewed resolve.

“Where are you going? Come back here! Kill me. _Kill me now_ , leech, or I swear to you, I will hunt you down and put a stake through your fucking heart!”

“If I am still alive when this is all over,” says Jonathan, rusted gates descending between them, “I will gladly surrender to your blade.”

.

.

.

Against his better judgement, Jonathan turns Edgar. He doesn’t have it in him to watch another friendly face die. He stays with him for the night, helping Edgar adjust to his new condition before going to inform Elisabeth of his plans to confront the Disaster. 

“...and how do you plan to retrieve the sample of King Arthur’s blood? The last I heard, the Guard of Priwen kept it as a treasured artifact, but that was decades ago,” Elisabeth contemplates.

“Your information is correct.” Jonathan has been avoiding this particular reality ever since decoding the antidote’s formula. “Their current leader has it in his possession.”

“Geoffrey McCullum. A vile man who I have thankfully eluded.” Elisabeth is far too perceptive to not notice Jonathan’s silence, “Do you disagree?”

“He is simply…misguided. He is a good man at heart.”

Elisabeth lifts one elegantly manicured brow. “Did he and his men not kidnap Dr. Swansea and torture him to the brink of death? Did I misunderstand that segment of your story?”

“I did not claim him to be a saint. But I know that Geoffrey has good intentions. Among us, he is perhaps the most redeemable.” A flash of Mary’s still, bloodied corpse. 

“Geoffrey,” Elisabeth repeats, delicately. “You speak of him with great familiarity.”

Jonathan takes a long inhale of his tea, steeling himself. “We were close friends in my previous life. Though almost a decade has passed since I last saw him,” a shudder runs through him, tea spilling over the cup’s edge, “Forgive me. It is difficult to speak of.”

“‘All other griefs allow a part to other griefs, and ask themselves but some; they come to us, but us Love draws, he swallows us, and never chews.’ Amongst all the poetry Sir Donne has written, these words struck the deepest chord. When we lose someone we love, our grief keeps us for eternity.” Elisabeth lays a hand over his. “I understand your pain.”

“I never said that I love him.”

“You need not have. Your body betrays you.” She lifts a finger to his cheek, swiping away a single watery drop of blood. A grotesque imitation of a tear. “Do not fear. I have lived many years and seen many forms of love. Gender is a foolish limitation.”

“Thank you,” says Jonathan, relieved that he will face no judgement from his mentor. “Unfortunately, it is the least significant wall between us. He will never return my affections, me being what I am. He tried to kill me last night. And I am rather…hesitant to face him again.”

“I wish that I could offer you reassurances, but tales of McCullum have always painted him as one of Priwen’s most devout fanatics.”

“I know. I have little hope that there will be a reconciliation between us. At best, I will die by his hand, and he shall attain some satisfaction from it.”

“Jonathan, I assure you that neither of you will be happy with that outcome.” Elisabeth frowns, squeezing his hand. Her touch is unnaturally cold, another bitter reminder of their condition, offering no solace.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But if he chooses to pass such judgement upon me, I will allow it.”

“Do you truly hate yourself so much?” Elisabeth says, sorrowfully. “You should not. You are a victim in all of this.”

“Victims are not murderers,” says Jonathan. Because no matter the circumstances, he _killed_ Mary. “I apologize for upsetting you, or if I seem ungrateful for your guidance. Rest assured that I will end this epidemic and see the whole of London, including your person, safe, before I meet my fate.”

“Do not apologize for your woes, my dear Jonathan. I only wish that I could ameliorate the wounds that have so scarred your soul.” Imploringly, “Promise me that, when this is all over, you shall find me. At the very least, to say goodbye.”

Jonathan nods, solemn. “I promise. And, Elisabeth, before I depart for my final quest, I must tell you something about your unwilling role in this epidemic.”

.

.

.

The cemetery is steeped in mist. The eastern enclosure of Stonebridge is elevated above the rest. It is a burial ground for prominent citizens, or at least simply citizens who come from families with deep pockets. Geoffrey stands at the far edge, paying his respects to an unknown grave. 

Jonathan’s footfalls clack against the damp path, stopping a few feet away. _Carl Eldritch, Beloved Leader,_ reads the tombstone. He waits for an attack, an angry outburst. But Geoffrey, mist swirling at his heels, is silent for minutes more. When he finally speaks, his words are subdued by regret.

“Nine years ago, when I left, Carl took me to go kill my brother.” 

That particular memory is clear as day. Jonathan has replayed it many times, wondering if it could have ended any other way.

“Ian was the last one. My father killed my mother after he turned, and Carl killed my father, saved my life. Brought me into Priwen. I owed him everything. And then, he told me he found my brother. I had to go. Get my last revenge, finish some fucked-up excuse of a happy ending.

We tracked him down back to Ireland. He was living in some dingy old flat in Dublin. Seemed almost normal. Pale, maybe, but us bastards are all white as ghosts. We just watched him for a few nights. He went to the bar, took walks, even read for a bit in the park. Ian was always the smart one,” a bitter chuckle that makes Jonathan’s heart twinge, “Then one night, he took a girl home from the bar. I saw him lure her into an alley with that leech hypnotism and then—he killed her. Ripped into her throat and drained her dry, dumped her there like garbage. That’s when I knew he wasn’t my brother anymore. That fuckin’ monster couldn’t be my Ian.

So the next night, we waited for him in his flat. Carl said I didn’t have to do it. But I knew I did. I damn well _wanted_ to. When he walked through the door, I drove a stake right into his heart. Looked right into his eyes as he died, and they were red, so fucking red, and he was just another filthy leech,” Geoffrey pauses and turns to face Jonathan and asks, almost fearfully, “But was he? If you’re really still Jonathan, then that means I killed my brother.”

It may not be what Geoffrey wants to hear but, “I am still, as far as I know, the same man as before. The same soul occupies this body. Although both myself and your brother are far from innocent, being what we are.” Jonathan allows Geoffrey to process the words as he, too, thinks of past sins. Had Mary given him half a chance, Jonathan would have protected her as he sought a cure for their condition until the end of days. He never wanted nor intended to kill her. Never would have, until she pleaded for it.

“I should have talked to him first. Heard his last words, at least.”

“You didn’t know any better,” Jonathan says. “You only saw a monster. That’s all you were taught.” 

Geoffrey stares down at his hands. “I suppose I know better now. You lot aren’t _all_ mindless, irredeemable beasts. There are…exceptions.”

Jonathan takes a careful step forward, reaching out for him with intention of offering comfort—

“I still don’t trust you,” Geoffrey retreats quickly. “But maybe, as you said, we do not need to be enemies.”

Frankly, to see wariness in Geoffrey’s eyes instead of open hatred is more than Jonathan ever expected. 

“That is all I ask,” Jonathan says. “Even if we cannot be close as before, we would be compelling allies.”

“Indeed.” Geoffrey nods, seeming to shake off his dark recollections. “I’ll admit that you are rather strong. It’s been a pain to have my men waste their time chasin’ you around. How long have you been a leech?”

“About two weeks. Yes, only two weeks. I’ve been informed that my Maker is powerful. One of the elder blood or something similar, if that means anything to you.”

“Two weeks,” Geoffrey muses, relief relaxing the line of his mouth, “I had thought different. As far as the elder blood business, I’m not too familiar with leech genealogy. That’s more up the Brotherhood’s alley.”

“An investigation for another time. Questions of my Maker have lost their importance; I have another urgent matter to attend to. In fact, it is the reason I came to find you.” He explains to Geoffrey, as cogently as he can given that he’s also unclear on the finer details, the matter of the Disaster, the source of the epidemic, and his imminent plans for the confrontation. 

“I knew that damn Swansea was up to no good,” growls Geoffrey. “My men were right. He started this bloody epidemic!”

“I will deal with Edgar later. As his Maker, I have some power over him; I will keep him firmly tethered to my own code of ethics,” Jonathan promises. “But first…”

“Yes, the blood. Here,” Geoffrey hands him the vial, “take it. Defeat the damned thing. If I could go with you to kill it myself, I would.”

“I apologize for causing you harm. Truly.”

Geoffrey says, dismissively, “We’ll call it even. I did give you that nasty scar on your face, after all. I’m. I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s alright,” Jonathan touches the raised skin beneath his eye, where Geoffrey cut him years prior. “I understand why you did it. Although I wish that you had never done it, and never gone.”

Geoffrey turns away. When Jonathan thinks that their conversation has ended, Geoffrey says, quietly, “Me too, doc. I wish I had stayed with you that day.”

Unfortunately, that’s when a Priwen patrol group comes running in to report a group of skals by the cemetery entrance. Jonathan slips into the shadows and heads for the sewers. 

The fate of London will be decided tonight.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this was a bit disjointed, i just wanted to cover the important parts so i jumped around a lot.
> 
> working on part 3 (the final part, for real this time) rn. let me know what you thought! :)


	3. PART 3

_ London, 1919 _

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.

It takes many months to convince Elisabeth to return to London. Rehashing the same arguments: the responsibilities of her estate and charitable activities, Jonathan’s need for a well-equipped laboratory, the negative psychological effect of isolation. It’s a letter from Charlotte that finally changes her mind. Elisabeth reads the parchment and comes to Jonathan, tearful, with her few belongings already packed. It is time to go home.

Taking Jonathan’s rented lorry, they drive through the afternoon to a distant railway station and board the train as dusk falls. For Jonathan, the overnight journey to London is spent reading several issues of the newspaper he scrounges up from the conductor. With the epidemic abated, the emergency state and curfew have been lifted from most of England’s eminent cities, London included. Ludwig Dawson has taken over his father’s company and adhered to the late tycoon’s last wishes, donating large sums of his personal fortune to various hospitals and signing investments within the healthcare space. Jonathan feels less guilty about mesmerizing Aloysius upon reading that.

There is no news of the Pembroke, which Jonathan takes as a good sign. He spoke with Edgar at-length before leaving for Scotland and ensured that the man understood the ethical guidelines Jonathan expected him to adhere to, as well as the consequences for not following them. Although there was no real way for Jonathan to ensure Edgar’s compliance, at the very least he knows the man has not fled London. Now that he is aware of siring another vampire, he knows Edgar’s location and wellbeing like a sixth sense. He supposes he felt Mary to an extent, but mistook the glow of her presence for the watchful gaze of his own Maker.

It is an hour before dawn when they arrive in London; in the springtime, light will bloom early across the horizon. Elisabeth takes a cab home, and Jonathan promises to stop by the Ashbury manor after he has his own affairs settled.

Wanting to appraise the city, Jonathan travels from the station to West End on foot. London is much changed. The streets are cleaner and blissfully empty of corpses; the warm air soothes instead of bites. He encounters no rogue skals and only two Priwen patrols (which he swiftly avoids). The jaunt is near  _ peaceful _ , and Jonathan arrives at the Reid mansion with a lightness to his shoulders he hasn’t felt in years.

“Mr. Jonathan,” Avery opens the door with startled delight, which swiftly morphs into a grimace. No doubt he expects Jonathan to simply collect his things and run off. “I did not expect to see you again. Please, allow me,” he moves to take Jonathan’s luggage.

“I have it, don’t worry.” Jonathan steps into the foyer and sets his bags by the staircase. “Perhaps a cup of tea, though? Is my mother awake?”

“Mrs. Reid is still resting. We are not all so young and energetic.” They amble toward the parlor, where Jonathan hovers by the blackened coals. “I will return with your tea, sir.”

“If it is not too much trouble, could you set it for two? I would like you to join me. I feel I have much to explain to you regarding my behavior these past months.”

“You owe me nothing, Mr. Jonathan.”

“I owe you everything for taking care of my mother,” Jonathan says, sighing. “But I understand your reluctance. At the very least, I will apologize now: I am sorry for neglecting this household and family. I swear that I will do my very best to rectify my mistakes. I intend to live here and care for my mother, and manage the Reid estate as is my responsibility.”

Avery watches him with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. Jonathan cannot fault him for his mistrust; Avery has demonstrated far more loyalty to the Reid name than its only son.

“Well, Mr. Jonathan, I am pleased to hear it. I am afraid it is a bit early for me to indulge in tea now, but if you are to assume permanent residence here, I am sure we will have plenty more opportunities for such leisures together.” 

Avery proceeds to the kitchen. When he returns with a serving tray, Jonathan is busy closing all the curtains in the room. “I am a bit sensitive to the sunlight,” Jonathan explains, “a residual medical condition from the war.”

“Ah. I shall remember that in the future.” Avery sets the tea upon the coffee table. “I selected a chamomile blend to encourage your continued health. Please enjoy, and welcome home.”

“Thank you, Avery. I am relieved to be back.” Jonathan inhales the calming fumes. As Elisabeth said, the scent is quite pleasant, no matter that they can only mime imbibement.

“Before I retire, I should inform you that a number of people have asked after you. The Crossleys paid visit, as well as a,” Avery flips through a small notepad, squinting, “Miss Charlotte Ashbury, Mr. Edgar Swansea, and Mr. Geoffrey McCullum. I assume you are familiar with these names?”

The others he had expected, but Geoffrey? He can’t possibly be making good on his vow to kill Jonathan, not after their conversation at the cemetery. “Did any of them have urgent business?”

“No, I do not believe so. They merely inquired as to your whereabouts.” 

“Ah, good. And that Mr. McCullum, did he… seem strange?”

“Not at all. He was cordial.” Avery visibly hesitates before saying, “If I may, he was rather familiar. Is he the same young man who you were seeing ten years ago?” His lips twitch when Jonathan’s blinks at him, baffled, “I am no fool, Mr. Jonathan. It is hard to miss a fellow scaling the wall and climbing into your room twice a week.”

If his cheeks could color, they would be bright red with embarrassment. Jonathan makes do with putting his face in his hands. “All this time… I can’t believe you knew.”

“Your youthful indiscretions were far from subtle.” Avery smiles. “It’s alright, sir. I am no bigot. I was glad that you had found someone who made you smile. And of the whole lot, you seemed happiest when you were with him. It is fortuitous that you have crossed paths again.”

“Yes, very fortuitous,” Jonathan says, muffled, “thank you, Avery. Let us please never speak of this again.”

“Love is nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Jonathan. I wish you two the very best. Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

Long after Avery retires, Jonathan sits and thinks on the old man’s words, reminiscing of simpler days.

.

.

.

Come evening, Jonathan sups with his mother, repeating the pledge he gave to Avery, though she seems more confused by his presence than anything. It is disheartening, but Jonathan will not be dissuaded. He takes tea with her, helps Avery administer several medications, and even sees her to bed before setting out. It feels  _ right _ , and Jonathan swears to take care of her every day. It will be no hardship, anyway, as without the incessant battling and flight, Jonathan has much more energy and far less need for sleep.

Well-rested, Jonathan proceeds to the Pembroke in good spirits. He finds Edgar in his same office, neck-deep in paperwork and, surprisingly, not ill-advised biological experimentation. 

“Jonathan,” Edgar sputters, somehow looking more exhausted than he did during the epidemic, “is that really you? Am I dreaming? I must have fallen asleep at my desk again.”

“No, Edgar, it really is me. Elisabeth and I have returned from our sabbatical.” Jonathan huffs, amused, when the man rushes forward and hugs him, sporting a grin from ear to ear. Despite Edgar’s past folly, Jonathan feels loyalty toward him. Edgar was the first friendly face in his deathly existence, and he has such zeal for medicine and  _ Jonathan  _ that it’s difficult to dislike him. After all, Jonathan is not a man entirely without ego.

“Oh, how brilliant it is to see you again. I knew that you were not dead, our connection being what it is, but I was nonetheless terribly concerned. What did you discover about the Disaster and your Maker? What have you and Lady Ashbury been doing? Have you made any progress in researching the—”

“Edgar, please, I will explain everything to you in due time,” Jonathan interrupts. “I would like an update on more pressing matters: developments with the city and the hospital, first. Your own research and a confirmation of its ethical boundaries, second.”

Edgar plods back to his desk and slumps dramatically into his office chair. “Oh, my friend, how I wish I had some news to share of my own research, even if it was met only with disapproval. But I have been absolutely swamped with administrative work! So much so that I considered passing the torch to Dr. Ackroyd.” 

“That is unfortunate,” Jonathan remarks, inwardly thankful he doesn’t have to hunt down some other disaster. “What has you so preoccupied?”

“Construction. Blasted construction! Dawson and Dawson has donated an entirely new wing to the Pembroke, and there is endless work to sift through on it.”

“What a burden.”

“Why, Jonathan, I think I liked you better without the sarcastic flair. What happened to the polite, gentleman doctor from the West End?”

“He died. It was most tragic.”

Edgar barks out a laugh. “I am glad to see you are on better terms with our condition. I believe that this is the very first time I have seen you smile.”

Jonathan touches the corner of his lips, surprised to feel that they are indeed curved up. “Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose I am indeed more at peace now that London is not on the verge of collapse. Speaking of which, an update?”

“Of course, of course. Well, after you eliminated the source of the epidemic…” Edgar provides a more thorough account of the events Jonathan read in the newspapers, and at some point delves into a twenty-minute long rant about England’s insufferable bureaucracy when it comes to construction and how he’s resorted to abusing vampiric mesmer to cut through the layers of red tape. The Ascalon Club has recruited Aloysius’ son, Nurse Crane is now improbably the head of a healthcare center for refugees and immigrants funded by Miss Charlotte Ashbury, the Brotherhood stands strong with Usher Talltree as primate (another long rant about how Edgar is still the black sheep despite his body being the ultimate resource for their organization) and the Guard of Priwen continues their patrols, though at far reduced rates. Now that the epidemic is over, a number of their members have apparently returned to outposts in smaller towns. 

“Do you know if Geoffrey is still in London?” Jonathan cuts off the beginnings of yet another rant, this time probably about Priwen’s fanaticism.

Edgar stops short. “Most definitely. McCullum is like a bad rash; he never goes away,” cocking his head inquiringly at Jonathan, “Do you plan to seek him out?”

“Yes.”

“Even after he attempted to kill you and, more or less,  _ did _ kill me?”

“Edgar, let’s be honest. You aren’t complaining about the latter part.” Jonathan nearly laughs when Edgar shrugs,  _ you caught me _ . “But, yes, I plan to seek him out. We have come to a truce of sorts.”

“A truce? With _that_ man? …Well, I trust you, Jonathan. Let me know if you need back-up when you go. Don’t give me that look; I am quite the fighter. I was sired by a very prominent vampire of an ancient lineage, don’t you know?” Edgar sniffs haughtily. “Right, anyway, I reckon you can find him in the Priwen headquarters in Whitechapel or the Turquoise Turtle. Though I would personally recommend checking the latter first — unless you intend on eliminating a few of them after all?”

Jonathan smiles wryly. “Good night. Do your best to stay out of trouble.”

“If only I had any time for trouble,” complains Edgar.

.

.

.

The Turtle’s condition is markedly improved. Stains have been scraped from the windows, and the floor shines with wood polish. Jonathan’s sensitive nose picks up only the faintest hint of piss as he crosses the threshold.

“Dr. Reid,” greets Tom, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Welcome back.”

“Thank you. A whiskey for me, please.”

Tom snatches a glass and a bottle from the top shelf. The Turtle being the Turtle, it’s still rather unimpressive stuff. “How was your little, er, research trip, right? Whaddya call it? Sab, sub,” Tom snaps his fingers, thinking.

“Sabbatical,” Jonathan supplies.

“Yes, that. How was that?”

“It was quite fruitful.” In a manner of speaking. Little progress was made on an actual cure or vaccine for the strain Elisabeth carried, but Jonathan counted pulling her out of her slump as productive. “How did you hear about that?”

“Oh, word travels fast, especially when a bloke like you up and vanishes. You helped a lot of folk around here during the epidemic. Ichabod started getting a damn search party together before Sean told him where you were.” 

“Ah, I see. Well, I’ll leave it in your capable hands to inform the public of my return.”

Tom chuckles and sets the whiskey down. “I’ll do that. Enjoy now, Dr. Reid. It’s good to see you again.”

“You too, Tom.”

Being a weekday, the bar is empty save for Miss Cavendish working on a persistent stain by the front window. But it’s early in the night. Still plenty of time for Geoffrey to arrive. Jonathan ambles over to a far table in the corner, deciding to sit and wait. Pour some whiskey out the window, maybe.

“Oh, that’ll be McCullum’s table. A regular here at night, sort of a nasty fella,” Tom warns.

Jonathan turns to him, alarmed. “Nasty?”

“Well, he’s polite enough, tips well, but he runs with that Priwen gang. Real violent sort. Heard he’s the leader, actually,” says Tom, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t think a guy like him would take too well to you being in ‘his seat’, is all.”

“Ah, it’s alright.” It’s a relief to know Geoffrey’s “nastiness” is based mostly on his reputation. Less of a relief that Priwen is still infamously violent. “We’re acquainted. I promise we won’t cause any trouble. Does he come in around now?”

Tom checks his watch. “Eh,” clicking his tongue, “a little later, usually. Nocturnal type, like a bat.”

“A bat,” Jonathan repeats, amused. “Right.”

He pulls out a chair and settles in, noting with some pleasure that this is the very table he and Geoffrey met at so many years ago. It could be coincidence, or it could mean something. 

He isn’t sure what he wants out of tonight’s meeting with Geoffrey. A reaffirmation of their truce, certainly. A rekindling of their friendship, perhaps. Anything more would be too much to ask for, and Jonathan dares not hope for it. It’s best to let such things go.

But Jonatha, fool as he is, sighs into the whiskey and hopes anyway.

.

.

.

Around two o’clock in the morning, Geoffrey comes into the bar. Jonathan smells and hears him before he sees him — dirt, gunpowder residue, the scrape of metal and shuffling fabric. A lit cigarette between his lips singes the air. And beneath it all, something wholly human, the unique scent of Geoffrey: his skin and blood and flesh. It’s hypnotic.

“The usual,” Geoffrey grumbles, slapping coins onto the counter and stamping out his cigarette. He seems to be in a poor mood, though he looks healthier. More color to his cheeks and somehow broader than before. His hair is shorter, curling slightly and unkempt. Jonathan stares greedily, wanting to memorize every detail before Geoffrey realizes his presence and things, possibly, take a turn for the worse.

Geoffrey grabs his drink and heads to the table. He stops in his tracks when he sees Jonathan, shock, anger, and relief cycling across his face, until the wheel finally lands on irritation. He stalks toward Jonathan with a fearsome scowl.

The chair rakes shrilly when he yanks it out and sits. “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” Jonathan agrees. Then, he falls silent. All the explanations and questions and apologies that he prepared seem suddenly adequate.

Geoffrey downs his drink in one go. He leans back, crossing his arms. “Heard you took a holiday.”

“Not quite. Lady Ashbury and I went to research the cause of the epidemic,” Jonathan says cautiously. He has no intention of telling Geoffrey Elisabeth’s condition and bringing the full force of Priwen down on her head. “It required some seclusion.”

“Right. Sure. And did you find anything?”

“Some leads, but nothing concrete. We’ve come to London to continue our work. Given the … state of affairs in the city, it took time to convince Elisabeth to return.”

“Should’ve stayed away. City was down two leeches. Now I’ll have to tell the boys to watch for two more faces.”

“Will you?” 

Seconds tick by tensely, uninterrupted except by the clink of glasses as Tom shuffles about the bar. Finally, Geoffrey kicks his chair forward, hands splayed on the table. The fight drains from him and he says, “No. I suppose I won’t. It would be a bit backwards for us to go killing the savior of London and whatnot.”

A smile spreads across Jonathan’s face, irrepressible. “A truce, then.”

“A truce,” Geoffrey grumbles. “What we talked about in the cemetery still stands.”

“Does all of it?”

“All of it?”

“What you said about wishing you had stayed with me,” Jonathan chances, “Does that still stand?”

He hears the telltale rush of blood as Geoffrey’s pulse quickens. Geoffrey deflects, “Wishing never did anyone any good. No changing the past.”

“Indeed. The past is set in stone. But the future...” Jonathan slowly, carefully, places his hand over Geoffrey’s. Traces his fingers over the scarred knuckles and warm skin, affection and hope swelling within him when Geoffrey doesn’t pull away. “We can change that. If you still want to.”

Geoffrey swallows. “I tried to kill you. I’ve  _ been  _ trying.”

“It is forgiven,” says Jonathan, and it  _ is.  _ He understands Geoffrey’s behavior, his evils and his flaws and his mistakes, and he forgives him for it. “I meant what I said before. I still love you.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

He strokes his thumb over Geoffrey’s wrist, his heartbeat, reassuring. “It is.”

“...I’m not sure it would be that easy for me. I’ve been trying to come to terms with what you are, but,” Geoffrey gazes at him, eyes cloudy, “I don’t know if I can feel the way I did before about you. If I can trust you.”

Jonathan flinches. He was a fool for hoping again, and now the sting of rejection hurts all the more. “I understand,” he says, drawing his hand back.

Geoffrey catches it. Laces their fingers together. “But I can try. For you. For us.” 

And so, he does.

.

.

.

* * *

EPILOGUE

_ London, 1919 _

.

.

.

Dusk shrouds the stony streets, purples the sky. Geoffrey paces along the curb, leaves crunching beneath his boot. He shoves his trembling hands inside his pockets. Damn it all. Forgot to bring gloves. He’ll freeze his fingers off tonight.

“Mr. McCullum, would you care to wait inside?” Avery peers down at him from the doorway, yellow light fanning out from within Reid manor.

“I’m alright,” Geoffrey says gruffly.

“I insist. It’s dreadfully cold out there, and we’ll both get an earful if you fall ill.” 

True enough. Jonathan’s a relentless mother hen. Geoffrey huffs and hustles up the steps. He loiters awkwardly in the foyer as Avery locks up behind him. Even after all this time and an improbable number of visits, Geoffrey still feels like an interloper in the manor. Like he’s staining the place just by breathing its air. 

“Have a seat by the fire. Mr. Jonathan will be down soon,” Avery says, whirling off to the kitchen. “I’ll put on a pot of tea.”

Geoffrey shuffles to the parlor and hovers around the sofa. After a minute of waffling, he throws himself onto the cushion and slouches down in protest of his own discomfort. For good measure, he kicks his feet up on the mahogany coffee table. The fire crackles, bathing him in heat. He didn’t get much sleep today. Drafting letters to the outposts about winter tactics, when the leeches have an advantage…

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

Geoffrey wakes to the low timbre of Jonathan’s voice and the soothing brush of fingers in his hair. Jonathan is kneeling by the sofa, his shirt rumpled and undone two buttons. His neck is pale, near translucent. Geoffrey can see the thick vein underneath the skin. His sleep-addled brain wants dearly to mouth at it.

“Sorry,” he says blearily, “must’ve dozed off.”

“Want to have a night in?” Jonathan says, cupping Geoffrey’s hand in his palm. “Are you scheduled for any patrols?”

“No, but I,” he bites his lip, suppressing a yawn. He usually patrols anyway, mostly with Jonathan. Sometimes the said patrols turn into moonlit strolls, and others they turn into all-night exterminations of rogue skal nests.

Jonathan brings Geoffrey’s hand to his lips. Drops delicate kisses to his fingertips. “London will survive without us for one night.”

“Are you so sure of that?” 

Jonathan smiles, teasing. “We’ll just have to take the risk. Are you up for it, darling?”

“Oh, you know me, doc,” Geoffrey says, smiling back, “I always am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for joining me on this mini journey to achieve jonathan and geoffrey's happy ending :) i hope you enjoyed it! special thanks to everyone in the disc for the support <3


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